


aprico (dead people)

by halfaday



Series: doyu drabbles [6]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but yuta dresses like a pirate and doie wears long large dresses, no specific time period in mind, title might be edited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: Dongyoung is…
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta
Series: doyu drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906981
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	aprico (dead people)

**Author's Note:**

> very loosely inspired by a nosleep story, [My Ancestor’s Journal](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/80dujh/my_ancestors_journal) (graphic, proceed with caution if interested. spoilery list of cw in end notes). yuta, employee, servant of a powerful entity, is tasked to find a sacrifice (a soul to eat) for him every year. the process takes minimum six months — consists in yuta tricking the person into agreeing with being a sacrifice, and giving their soul to the entity. as yuta works on dongyoung, he falls for him.

Dongyoung is tawny skin and gentle features — timid gaze and unsure lingering at the door, feather-light touches and hesitant caresses. He's a patch of sunlight covered by a wide cloak that captures and devours all the light — he's a blooming flower that withers little by little, feet deep in water and burning star begging him to stand tall. He's amber frame, amber bones — amber mind, with one lone seed of hope in the middle, in a clearing where the sun doesn't shine anymore.

He's less than he should be — a fulfilled man now that his father is gone; a blossoming mortal; a father in the making, at the head of a loving family — a dying tree that didn't even get the chance to grow, a shooting star that never got to live. A comet that wonders if trying to keep up is worth it — if crashing isn't simply better, easier. A dying fire that hesitates, still — that weighs pros and cons instead of asking for more fuel, for a longer time on earth — a fire that, slowly, as it ponders about its choices, goes extinct.

He's a fragile thing, lingering in the darkness and fearing the bright light of the sun; visiting his parents' graves every day instead of cursing them to hell — remaining in a nest he can no longer call home because his wings, fragile, have been grazed too many times, and he fears crashing, fears taking everything down with him — cursing himself with a repetition of the past, because the sun won't meet him halfway, and he's terrified, alone — comfortable in this damned place, and he doesn't know if he wants to fly out. He's a tragic thing, a tragic history — His usual prey, what He requests most after bright souls — a kill that will never matter, that will be as irrelevant as the life Dongyoung has led up until now. The perfect sacrifice, the best soul they'll manage to have this year.

He's the most beautiful thing Yuta has ever seen, in decades, centuries of existence. Black hair that covers a scarred forehead; eyes that see and reflect things a little too clearly; round cheeks that never once left, even as he struggled to eat; thin, round nose that gets finer when he frowns; pink lips that bring to life things Yuta would never once think of. A tanned neck that could easily be snapped; delicate clavicles that, to Yuta, reflect him best; broad shoulders that carry the world's pain upon them — a blurrier sight from there on, because Yuta has never seen Dongyoung naked, doesn't know what he looks like in his entirety. He guesses long arms, to match the arachnidian hands that so often brush against his; a wounded back, to represent everything he has been through; a small waist, visible when he wears his white night robe, and he stands before the chimney, unable to sleep - pitiful - unsure; skinny legs, that never see the light of the day, that struggle to carry him through fields, streets, tombs — to his own room, to his own bed; gracious feet, that peek from his shoes from time to time, that so often overthink the direction they're taking. A skinny chest, probably as pale as his legs, as fragile as his neck, his clavicles, himself — a thin armour for the timid heart that beats underneath, that so rarely speaks up — that only gets louder here, and there; when he's carrying things up the stairs, or through the fields; when he's talking to an old friend of his parents, or coming home from the cemetery; when he's leaning forward to grab the salt, and Yuta doesn't budge — when Yuta is the one getting closer, and he doesn't dare moving — when the movement is mutual, and their foreheads brush against each other, their noses almost touch, and the warmth of Dongyoung's lips is almost palpable, almost on his — when his breath fans Yuta's lips, and he gets drunk in what could be, gets intoxicated on all the possibilities — when he pulls back, frightened, and excuses himself, leaves precipitately — abandoning Yuta empty-handed, and more hollow-chested than he should ever be. 

'You're staring, again. I have told you a thousand times. This is not allowed.'

The wooden table he's wiping clean creaks as he rubs too hard on the usual spot — the one Yuta caused, on the far left corner. On his cheeks, a timid pink slowly takes over gold, and Yuta wonders, just what his Master fails to see in Dongyoung.

He'd visited once, of course — to ensure the quality of his prey Himself, to verify if Dongyoung's soul was as worthy as Yuta said it was (when Yuta only saw what his duty asked of him, and there was no string, however how feeble it now is, that linked him to Dongyoung — at a time that seems further than it truly is, and that now terrifies Yuta). 

He'd seen Dongyoung and spoke to him; disguised as an old man, feigning to be looking for a village, a path; letting Himself be invited for lunch, sitting at the table with the two of them as if He did not see chaos as a simple pastime. 

_Good find,_ He'd told Yuta at the end of the meal, as He was feigning a sudden hurry, and ignoring the pie Dongyoung had made. _Weak, and tasteless, but it has the emptiness that serves us well._

And He was right: Dongyoung is empty, almost fully devoid of life — he isn't interested in fighting back, and probably wouldn't care about his tainted soul ending up in the mouth, throat, _stomach_ of Yuta's Master — probably would let it happen, and resolve himself to wander on earth like any good meal does.

But - Yuta sees glimpses of things, from time to time — very often, recently. When they collect vegetables, and the sun, perpetually hiding behind the clouds, peeks out — and, hands reaching for another find, Dongyoung straightens himself up, and closes his eyes — basks in the light, the warmth for a few seconds, and becomes peaceful. When twilight is upon them, and the neighbours' dog pays them a visit, queries food — when she rubs herself against his legs as he gives her remnants of their meal, and he's reduced to a simple human, kind and endeared by smaller, weaker beings. When, at night, rain falls heavily against the windows, and, unable to find Morpheus' embrace, he sits on the couch, waits for the sky to be quiet once again — when Yuta crosses paths with him as he heads to his room, and the sight seems to soothe him, seems to never fail to bring a smile to his face. When a negative emotion is pulling at every wrinkle of his face, and his shoulders sag, weary of the weight they carry — when he sits down to take a break, and the fire warms him up gently — the frown is no more, and a sigh escapes his lips.

When, at night, he cannot resist Yuta's call, and he wanders into his room, adrift, timorous; sure of what he wants. When he takes a seat on his bed, and attempts to strike a conversation — fails at it, and his heart picks up a quicker, louder pace; cheeks red like the berries he picks on Friday mornings, and frame shaky like a leaf caught in a storm. When Yuta rids him of his shame, taking his chin between his fingers, running a thumb down the collar of his robe — and he's tempted, impossibly tempted. The seed in his mind grows, and travels to every part of his body — it blooms into a sunflower as he allows Yuta to get closer, to caress him, and Yuta can feel it, see it as he undoes his first, second buttons, and he gets a peek of soft skin, meek and fragile humanity all for him. A bright yellow, a bright green — multicoloured lust and the feelings that unfortunately come with it; hungry colours and the desires they carry, the insecurities they try to hide.

The sunflower never reaches full bloom, never gets to be loved like it deserves — Dongyoung always pulls back before Yuta can even properly touch him, always runs away before Yuta can offer him what he's supposed to keep for himself — and on mornings, it is no more, hides again where it cannot (won't allow) to be seen. On mornings, Dongyoung becomes the pale grey he's tricked himself into believing he is — and Yuta watches, yearns for more — wishes for the sunflower to show itself one more time, so he can lead it outside, under the sun — where it is supposed to lie, forever until the end of times. Where Dongyoung is supposed to be, far away from tasteless sacrifices, and hurt caused by the dead.

'I know.'

Yuta leans against the wall behind him, crosses his arms — observes Dongyoung, hunger settling in his bones for the nth time. In his chest, pitifully — something tugs at the void filling him.

'But I am allowed ownership over the deepest corners of my mind, aren't I? I am allowed to imagine things, and play them again and again. Am I not?'

Strawberry red once again overtaking tawny skin — reaching even Dongyoung's ears, and leaving him speechless. This, too — Yuta wonders how blind one can be to deem it nothing more than decent.

The table creaks one last time — Dongyoung opens his mouth once, twice, and closes it just the same amount of time. Speechless — he throws his wet towel into the sink with more strength than necessary — lifts his basket of laundry with shaky arms, crosses the distance between them with wobbly legs. Like a leaf, tender under one's touch, fragile to all happenings — like glass, attempting to be as strong as it can, hiding behind pillars to appear less weak. A feeble attempt at fooling Yuta, that inevitably fails — but Yuta accepts it, and, as a gift - he sees a glimpse of the sunflower when Dongyoung speaks.

'You are allowed complete ownership over your mind,' he whispers — closer than he should be, warmer than the sun — Yuta represses a shiver. 'You are allowed to mentally unravel any desire that crosses it. But you should remember: this is where it ends, and wishing for more will only leave you, and your mind, starving.'

He holds Yuta's gaze for as long as he can — pours hatred, anger, and deception in it. The usual, after a night of temptation — Yuta can already tell that, when he'll look away -

'I'll be in the garden, and you're welcome to join me; to help me.'

\- he'll catch sadness as it conceals itself; he'll catch lust and loneliness as they imitate their biggest sibling. A wilted petal of the sunflower, something that needs to be plucked, and thrown away.

Dongyoung straightens himself up, and steps back — walks out of the kitchen assuredly, but then stops. For the very first time — and for the first time too, he turns around. His dark brown eyes set on Yuta like never before, his lips a thin line of a decision he's decided to take.

'I advise you not to starve yourself,' he says. Tone shaky, but sure of its intent, of its direction. 'Nothing good will come out of it. Trust me.'

Yuta thinks the words through, makes out all and nothing. A bait, an invitation — a sincere warning, a request to not give in — a demand to forbid _Dongyoung_ from giving in. Petals of a sunflower, assuming Yuta is the sun, and looking to him for comfort, for advice — begging to be brought back to the shadows, and left alone to perish.

Yuta tilts his head.

'And if I want to starve?'

A sour look crosses Dongyoung's face — he tightens his hold on his basket, and throws venom with his eyes. He expected better 

(and yet: two bright petals fall to the floor, curious)

He opens his mouth, weighs his words — speaks them loud and clear, devoid of any emotion,

'Then you will die. And none will be around to bury you.'

And before Yuta can reply, he turns around, and leaves.

And as the front door opens and closes, outside — droplets of water fall against the window — the sun comes out from behind the clouds, and strikes Yuta on the back — strikes the trail Dongyoung left behind him,

and Yuta understands.

With a swift gesture, he picks up the petal closest to him — watches as it becomes a bright yellow under his touch, then tenderly pockets it in his shirt, in his soul — where it may feed on everything it wants, everything he has to offer. At his feet — darkness begs, and he caresses it with his gaze, apologises for not being able to do anything for it. He waits for the thousand black petals to give their last breath, to be no more, before stepping upon them, and following their path, heading to a pleading field.

Indeed - there shall be none to bury him.

**Author's Note:**

> cw list: graphic descriptions of dead animals’ bodies; bugs (maggots, worms); internalised homophobia; witchcraft; human giving birth to animals
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/millesoirees)


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